


One Last Time

by riv_banks



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 18th Century, Canon Era, Historical Lams, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, POV John Laurens, but I'm tagging just in case, but its not accurate, it's really not descriptive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 04:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15655905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riv_banks/pseuds/riv_banks
Summary: The Redcoats were coming. They were hopelessly outnumbered.Aka a historical Lams oneshot that I wrote while listening to movie soundtracks. (Also, it's not actually historically accurate)





	One Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first story on here so I hope it's okay! I wrote this while sitting on my couch listening to "battle music" on Spotify. Sorry for the pain! Enjoy and feel free to leave feedback!

John could sense it in his gut. They were coming. A sense of dread washed over him as he looked over the walls. Hundreds, thousands of British soldiers stood before the gates of their camp. John’s eyes grew wide with fear as he stumbled down the steps to warn the General. they knew the war had been coming to them, but now the war was at their doorstep.

Washington had ordered everyone down to the fields. They stood before the army of redcoats and waited in the grey light of the moon. There was only silence. Then, out of nowhere, chaos reigned. John was lost to the pandemonium. The world spun around him as he was frozen on his feet. Suddenly, with a forceful push, he was thrown into the chaos that surrounded him. He had no choice but to follow his companions into battle. John raced through the battlefield, dodging redcoats left and right. This was no battle for gunfire alone. John drew his sword and stood tall as the british soldiers charged him. With one swift movement he lifted his sword and sliced through the offending soldiers. John pushed forward, lunging this way and that, stabbing as he went. He soon fell into what might seem like a dance, a dodge here and a step to the left. A swing to the right and a spin on his heel to bring down the soldier behind him. He looked to his left and saw Lafayette, he looked to his right and found Alexander. His Alexander. Covered in dirt and grime, his navy coat stained with the blood of fallen soldiers. 

Alex gave John a curt nod before diving back into the battle. The iconic duo were left to dodge and swing their way through redcoats. Alexander stabbed and John sliced. They fell into a rhythmic combat. With their backs to each other and their swords to the battle, they were unstoppable. The rebels were gaining the upper hand. Alexander had left John to fend for his own as he went after a group of lobsterbacks to the east.

John’s attention was drawn to his left as the Marquis screamed his name. He turned just in time to see a sword pierce through Lafayette’s stomach. John froze in shock and horror for only a moment before running to his fallen friend. He screamed for a doctor, for someone - anyone - to help, but nobody came. He cradled Lafayette’s head in his lap as the Marquis lay dying. There were a few mumbled words, probably in French, before he went limp in John’s arms. John looked around fruitlessly before he spotted Hercules Mulligan, fending off three lobsterbacks. John shot up and aimed his gun at one of the british soldiers. He had sent the soldier tumbling to the ground with a gunshot through his chest. Mulligan then made a mistake that he would not get a chance to regret. He turned his head toward the source of the gunshot. Hercules was stabbed through his middle. He fell to the ground and John watched as the wretched lobsterback struck the end of his bayonet through Mulligan’s skull.

John scanned the chaotic battlefield. He could see Alexander from where he stood, fighting lobsterbacks, dodging blows left and right. And then it all slowed down. Time froze and everything was still. John tried to shout a warning but he was too late, Alexander stood frozen in the middle of the field with a bayonet through his chest. John raced forward, running as fast as his legs could carry him. He had no time. He was running out of time. Ahead of him, he could see a red soldier raising his gun to Alexander’s head. John used all of the strength and energy he had left to get to him. 

“Alexander!” Alex turned his head toward John. Alexander’s eyes said it all, he knew he was going to die. John could see the pain and grief in his deep brown eyes. Goodbye, he mouthed as a bullet went straight through his head. He was too late, he had run out of time. John watched as Alexander’s limp body fell to the ground with a soft thud. 

John charged forward in a blind rage. He screamed and he cried and he stabbed at anyone who came near to him. Redcoats fell in his wake. John kept pushing through, soldier after soldier until he came upon Alexander’s body. He lay there, cold and pale in front of him. John cradled Alex’s head in his lap, tears flowing freely, landing on Alexander’s cold corpse.

Everything went numb. The gunshots, the screams, the terror of battle, it all went silent. There was a dull ringing in John’s ears as he held his beloved close. He watched as Alexander’s eyes grew dimmer with every passing moment. The fiery passion that once enveloped the man in his arms was now gone. Gone would be his voice calling out to him in the middle of the night. Gone would be the seemingly endless letters of affection and late nights spent under the stars. Gone would be the reckless spirit, the kind heart and the impossible mind of the man that he had loved.

A young man in a blue coat fell to the ground next to John, bringing with it the reality of the battle raging around him. Gunshots rang out and soldiers fell left and right. Screams and cries of pain echoed across the battlefield. John watched in horror as his companions, his friends, fell to the ground, swallowed up by the earth. His worst nightmares were coming true. Now, it was only him left. A group of soldiers across the moonlit field caught a glimpse of the gold buttons on his navy blue coat and came marching toward him. There was no one left but him. General Washington was amidst the fallen, as was his Alexander. His dear Alexander had met his end with a bullet through his skull.

As the soldiers neared, John could think only of death. How he might welcome it as an old friend. Not yet, he thought, there is one more task to be done. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins at the thought. His breath quickened and he could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He stood amidst his fallen friends as the group of soldiers marched toward him. With a sword in his right hand and a pistol in his left, he stood, waiting for the lobsterbacks to approach him. This was it. It was him, only him, against a dozen soldiers. The redcoats stopped, leaving ten feet of silence between them, each waiting for the other to make a move. 

The full moon hung high above the men, seeming to loom closer with each second spent waiting. Then John charged forward, a cry escaping his lips. With that cry came all of the pain he had endured, all of the suffering, all of the heartbreak and loss. This cry was filled with anguish and grief and the power of a thousand men as John charged the soldiers.

“FOR THE REVOLUTION!” he yelled. He swung his sword, emancipating one man’s head from his body. “FOR THE MARQUIS AND MULLIGAN!” John shouted again, shooting a soldier, point blank in the face. He stabbed and swung and dodged and ducked. He had taken out a good number of the remaining redcoats, but John was running out of energy. His muscles ached and his bones grew weary from exertion. There were only a few left now. With one last flare of energy, he screamed, “FOR MY ALEXANDER!”

John thrust his sword through the air, killing redcoats, avenging Alexander. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks now. He swung and sliced, dropping each bloodied man to the ground. He didn’t know when he had fallen to the ground, but his muscles burned and it took every ounce of strength he had left to rise to his feet. The soldier, red coat stained with John’s blood, stood before him. He stared John down, silently telling him that it was over. This was the end.

John felt it in his chest first. A sharp, piercing pain. It etched it’s way through his lungs and up into his shoulders. Swiftly, he took his sword from the ground and speared the man above him, pushing him off to the side. The pain was now overwhelming. There was nothing left. He was alone in the cold moonlight with a hole in his chest. There was no one. 

He lay on the cold earth, looking up at the sky, just like he had done so long ago, telling his Alexander about the constellations. Cassiopeia, the vain queen who boasted of her beauty, doomed to imprisonment amongst the stars. Draco, the hundred-headed dragon sent to guard the garden of Hesperides. And Pegasus, the majestic, winged horse painted as stars in the night sky.

The memory of lying under the stars with Alexander by his side brought tears to his eyes. A sob wracked John’s body and a wave of pain flooded over him. John longed for Alexander. He remembered the day they had first met. Alexander’s fiery personality did not match his small stature. John remembered that night in the bar, it was the first time he had laid eyes on Alexander and his sleek, dark hair tied back with a silk ribbon. He was entranced by Alexander’s endless talking and the electric energy that surrounded him. He remembered the first time Alexander’s lips met his, an explosion of energy and love coursed throughout his entire body. He remembered when he had taken Alexander to watch the sunrise on the hill. The golden rays creating a halo around Alex’s head, the light reflecting perfectly in Alexander’s soft brown eyes.

Now, John lay in the grass beneath the stars with Alexander by his side once again. Though this time, Alexander could not see the sky above them. The wind blew softly through John’s curls. The clouds began to roll out, illuminating the field in silver light. John grieved for Alexander as he lay in the grass, growing cold in the pale light of the moon. He moved a hand to his aching chest and it came back sticky with his own blood. He cried out for Alexander, hoping that somehow he would come back and tell John that everything would be alright. 

John had always pictured a heroic death, dying in the name of his country, dying in honor, a martyr. If anything, he had achieved the death he had imagined. A hero’s death. He had fended off the last of the redcoats. He had avenged his friends. Maybe someday, John would see his Alexander again. Maybe, he thought. He let his eyes close and a stray tear rolled down his cheek as he said goodbye to his dearest Alexander, one last time.


End file.
